Sitting at the small gallery
In that old football ground
Where anyone hardly play football
Still only cricket dominating
With number of pitches at different spots
Fielders everywhere waiting for their respective balls
Watching those old trees with beautiful flowers
Memories run back as if to catch the past
I found a small guy who used to watch curiously
From the bus stop, at those playing in the middle
Dreaming about playing someday there
Hitting the ball out of the ground like them
He saw so many battles out there
Sitting underneath those big trees
Without worrying about scorching sun
Or drizzling rains.
Numerous hilarious moments
Serious debates with total strangers
And those silly fights with the people
Numerous friends he made from there
From being a spectator to some one in the middle
Years went so fast, huh still
Days of bunking in search of playing time
Comes so fresh in mind
Some passion kept him going
Forgetting everything while being there
Now more of a philosophical refuge
To go some time and to sit
Then watch youngsters playing around
Reliving those tense moments in the middle
But now there is no familiar faces around
Only those big trees, the park, the skating ring
And the temple saying hello to him
As if, they were old friends